


Sometimes your real dad is the eldritch abomination you meet along the way

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 11:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: One cold night, young Prompto is led into the woods, where he runs into a wild dad. Daemon. Dad daemon.





	Sometimes your real dad is the eldritch abomination you meet along the way

**Author's Note:**

> I’m in the middle of a move right now, so in lieu of posting updates (which I just can’t work on at the moment, given time constraints) I’m posting older fics I never bothered putting up before. Enjoy!

Everyone in Prompto’s village knows that there are monsters on the edge of town. Prompto’s best friend, Noctis, says he saw one the night he fell off the highest branch of the Climbing Tree—That the monster was tall and dark-eyed and horned like a daemon, skulking in the shadows while Noct howled and clutched his broken leg. Prompto has spent more than one sleepless night camped out at the edge of his yard, watching the distant line of trees for movement, but he hasn’t seen one yet.

Tonight, there are only two monsters in the woods, and they are holding Prompto’s hands. One is called Ammen Argentum, a golden-haired man in a heavy coat and expensive boots, and the second is his uncle, the wizard Besithia. Prompto glances his way as they walk Prompto through the dark wood, but he keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

“Dad,” Prompto says, and his voice comes out thin and high in the silent woods. “You said there was a night circus.”

“Of course there is,” Great-Uncle Besithia says. He swings his arm, and Prompto is lifted off his feet for a dizzying moment. He grins up at the wizard, whose answering smile is like the snarl of his old, skinny guard dogs, all teeth and gum. “We’re nearly there.”

“I’m _tired,_” Prompto says. “We’ve been walking forever.”

“He’s never tired,” snaps his father, and Prompto goes silent, cowed by the sharp tone of his voice. “He’s always up at all hours of the night with Harriet’s old binoculars, and I have to wake at the crack of dawn just to keep him from begging for breakfast—“

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says, but his father just squeezes his hand, a familiar warning.

“Now, Ammen, I understand your frustration—“

“I never asked for one of your half-broken experiments,” Ammen says. Prompto tries to tug out of his grip, but he’s trapped, his fingers squeaking as they grind together. He tries to look to Besithia for help, but instead, he sees a strange shadow in the undergrowth, a massive shape rising from the ferns. He stares, and two pinpricks of light stare back. 

“If your puppets can’t do as they’re told, don’t expect me to _mother_ them!”

“Hey,” Prompto says, and the shadow shifts, melting into the distance. “Hey, wait.”

“Be _quiet,_” his father hisses. 

“He’s still human,” Besithia says, but Prompto’s father just scowls. “I’d say we’re close enough. Prompto, can you point me the way back to the village?”

Prompto twists round. “Dunno,” he says. “That way?”

His father releases him as though his hand burns him.

“I need you to be good for me,” Besithia says, and Prompto turns to stare up at him. “We’re just going to get our tickets, and we’ll be right back. But you need to be brave, and patient, and you need to sit right here until we return. Can you do that for us?”

Prompto nods. 

“Good boy.”

Great-Uncle Besithia lifts Prompto onto a low tree branch, where Prompto sits, hands clenched, as Besithia and Prompto’s father disappear into the woods. He hopes they get their tickets soon. He wonders what a night circus looks like; whether there are daemons there, or acrobats, or people like his friend Ignis who can do a handstand for ten whole seconds. He wonders why his dad didn’t help him put his coat on when they left the house. The wind in the woods is sharp and chill, and it cuts right through his pajamas, which are already a little too short. He scrunches up close, tucking his hands in his sleeves, and waits.

And waits.

And waits. 

“Dad?” he calls. An owl hoots above him, and he totters on his branch. “Dad?”

But his father doesn’t answer.

There’s a shadow in the bushes again, detaching from the trees to stagger into the open, and Prompto holds his breath. A great horned creature emerges, wrapped up in layers and layers of jackets and scarves and belts, and damp, glistening black fur peeks out of the sleeves and under the hat shoved clumsily between their horns. They take a heavy step towards him, and Prompto can just see the smallest dots of light in their eyes.

“I saw you before,” he says. The monster nods, slowly, and something black oozes from their gums and splashes on the grass. “Are you the monster from the Climbing Tree?”

When the monster speaks, they have the voice of a man, low and drawling. “Are you aware of what just transpired here?”

“What’s a tran spire?” 

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. The monster stares at him. “Ah. I expect you must be cold.”

“No, I’m not.” Prompto always gets in trouble when he complains, and besides, big kids don’t whine. “Dad’s getting tickets for the circus. He said he’ll be back.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t a...” the monster sighs. “Would you like somewhere warm to stay while you wait? I have a house nearby.”

“Uncle Bes said to stay here.”

“I’ll leave a message,” the monster says.

“Oh.” Prompto supposes that makes sense. “Help me down?”

The monster does. His hands are silk-soft to the touch, and up close, his face is almost human, a ruin of black ink pouring from glowing eyes and pooling in the feathery fur at his neck. He sets Prompto down gently, tenderly, and Prompto takes his hand.

“They called you Prompto,” the monster says. 

“Uh huh.”

The monster lifts Prompto again when he stumbles over a log, and holds him there, legs dangling. “My name is Ardyn.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. “Like garden.”

Ardyn seems to consider this for a moment. “Yes,” he says, at last. “I suppose.”

He carries Prompto the rest of the way, passing through the darkest part of the forest, where trees stand apart, alone in circles of soft, weak grass. Prompto shivers, and the monster unwraps a scarf and drapes it over his shoulders. It’s massive and warm, made of a thick cloth Prompto doesn’t recognize, and he snuggles into it as snow starts to fall, soft puffs of it drifting from the branches.

“Here we are,” Ardyn says. He taps his foot on the ground, and Prompto gasps as grass slithers away from his boot, revealing a round wooden door. “Home, sweet home.”

The door swings outward, and Ardyn descends a long, winding staircase, which ends in a small house the size of Prompto’s bedroom, with a standing shower, a flimsy cot full of quilts, and a brick stove with a twisted little chimney. Ardyn sets Prompto down, and Prompto wraps the scarf tighter around himself, shaking, as Ardyn lights candles all over the walls just by pinching his fingers on the wicks.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope you have a kind aunt or uncle somewhere who can take you in?” Ardyn says, dabbing black ink from his eyes. 

“There’s Uncle Bes,” Prompto says.

“Ah. Thought so.” Ardyn turns to the stove, and Prompto jumps as a fire comes to life within, heating up the little room. He sits on the cot and is swallowed by quilts, which puff up around him as he sinks into the squeaky mattress.

“Do you... need something?” Ardyn asks. “I don’t remember what children require. You’ll need to be fed, at least.”

Prompto’s eyelids droop dangerously, and he sways on the bed. He should be scared. He knows that most monsters, at least the ones in his imagination, which wait under the bed and down long, empty halls, are supposed to eat people. But Ardyn just has a funny name and a bunch of scarves, and his oven’s too small to fit a kid. Prompto tips to the side, and gets one last look at the monster hunched over the stove before the warmth of the little house washes over him, pulling him into uncertain dreams.

—

There have been countless village-wide scandals since the first mayor, Somnus Lucis Caelum, built the gates to the small town and promptly kicked his brother out of them for stealing the family recipe book, but no scandal has ever struck the townspeople as quite so awkward as the day Ardyn Izunia buys the antique store. 

For one, no one remembers why the former antique dealer wants to sell. He just appears one morning, shivering in the damp snow, eyes hollow with shadow, handing a key to a massive man wrapped in a dozen flamboyant scarves. The man bows, and the antique dealer hustles to the chocobo post, hauling a single black suitcase behind him. The neighbors watch as the man in the scarves peers up into the dark antique store windows, then down at the small child bundled up in an oversized jacket next to him. Madame Sylva, the resident psychic and oracle, nearly falls out of her window trying to listen in, and passers-by stumble on their way to work, staring at the boy. 

“What do you say, Prompto?” they hear the man ask.

Prompto Argentum, the child half the town mourned just last week as his tearful father tossed flowers on his grave, reaches up to take the man’s hand.

“It’s ok,” he says. “There’s a rocking horse that looks like a chocobo in there.”

“Then I made the right decision,” the man says. He turns the key in the lock. “After you, my boy.”

Prompto disappears into the dark store, and the man follows him. Lights flicker on. Music plays from a record player deep within. Shadows dart across the store and upstairs apartment, and the onlookers edge closer as Prompto climbs into the shop window, carrying an armful of toys. He somberly places them in what he probably thinks is a fetching scene, where two toy soldiers are trapped on a brick building by a stuffed moogle, while a woman in a plaid shepherdess dress stands below. He waves at the people outside, who rock back, and scrambles off the window seat and towards the depths of the shop.

The head of the city guard stops by that afternoon.

“Now,” he says, standing a little ways back from the man in the scarves. The man claims to be Ardyn Izunia, but he dresses like royalty, with a black fur ruff that spills over his coat, and his face is obscured by a hawk-like mask, eyes inlaid with golden glass. “I should let you know that Prompto Argentum was considered dead last week—“

“You must not have been looking for him hard enough,” Ardyn says. Prompto sits on a red stool, legs dangling. “His father and uncle left him in my care. Or I assume they did. I found him at my doorstep, just about dead from the cold, waiting for them to come back from... what was it, Prompto?”

“The night circus,” Prompto says. His face twists a little, and he looks down. “But they didn’t come back.”

There’s a brief pause as the guard captain curses under his breath. “The Argentums left for the capital just a few days ago. I could—“

“It’s ok,” Prompto says, in a small voice. “I like it with Ardyn. He doesn’t pinch my ears or call me stupid all the time.”

The guard captain falters, his face falling, and Ardyn claps him on the shoulder.

“Perhaps you and Prompto here should have a little talk,” he says. “I’ll go get cookies.”

By the time the guard captain leaves the antique store, Ardyn is calling him by his first name and promising him a discount, and the captain is pale and shaken, hands trembling. The rumor mill stirs the town into disorganized chaos within the hour.

“It’s ok,” Prompto tells the mayor’s son, Noctis, as the two of them sit on the stairs overlooking the antique store. The store is full of people trying to discreetly gawk at Prompto’s new guardian, who Prompto knows is having trouble not spilling that black ink-like blood all over his shirt, and Prompto’s been upstairs most of the day, playing house with Noct. 

“He’s kind of weird,” Noct says, mumbling through a mouthful of bread. He sits close to Prompto as though afraid he’ll disappear if he looks away. “Why’s he got that mask?”

“Face is ugly,” Prompto says, tearing off a hunk of bread.

Noct thinks about this. “Oh,” he says, after a while. “That makes sense.”

That night, while Prompto flips about in bed with his stuffed chocobo doll, Ardyn tells Prompto a harrowing story about a horrible man who kicked his brother out of the village for _daring_ to obtain the family recipe book, which was his by right.

“Was it actually a spellbook meant for summoning daemons?” Ardyn asks, flinging his hands in the air. “Probably. Was it a terrible decision? Oh, yes. But it was _his,_ and just because something is a horrible idea on paper doesn’t mean—“

“Ardyn?” Prompto asks.

Ardyn stops, his dark eyes oozing ink, and stares at Prompto. “Yes?”

“Do you think there _is_ a night circus? Really?”

Ardyn sighs and runs a hand through his fur. “You want one that badly, do you?”

“I dunno. It sounded cool.”

Ardyn is silent for a moment. The upstairs apartment is strange, filled with his expensive rugs and books and little spell-touched bundles of sticks Prompto isn’t allowed to touch, but it’s... nice. Pleasant. Safe, in a way Prompto hasn’t felt in a long time. At last, Ardyn dabs at his cheeks with his ruined handkerchief and shrugs.

“I suppose,” he says, “I can always call in a few favors.”

A month later, Prompto heads into the woods with Ardyn and Noctis, the boys bundled up tight in heavy coats, Ardyn trailing a wealth of glittering scarves. Prompto shivers all the same, and tentatively reaches for Ardyn’s hand. And when they come back, Noctis looking slightly horrified while Prompto eats fried newt on a stick and talks excitedly about demonic acrobats, Ardyn hasn’t let go.


End file.
